


Bearing Gifts

by stray_alchemist



Category: The Queen's Thief - Megan Whalen Turner
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 11:29:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2810552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stray_alchemist/pseuds/stray_alchemist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two young queens can turn the tides of history when they wish to do so, but they aren't the mistresses of their own fates. A dream about power, trust, and propriety, that makes Attolia feel strangely at home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bearing Gifts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Etnoe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Etnoe/gifts).



> Happy Yule, fans of rare and obscure stories! I hope you're having fun during this year's Yuletide; it's the first time I'm participating instead of lurking, and I regret the years when I only stared in awe at all those rare fandoms finally receiving their stories. Now that I'm contributing to Yuletide, I was most happy to explore one of my favourite fantasy series, and my favourite characters in it: Helen and Irene. Dear Sout, thank you for your inspiring ideas! I took some liberties (and regretted I found no way to combine many of your character-specific ideas in one epic tale), but I hope you enjoy the story nonetheless. 
> 
> Best wishes,
> 
> \- kari

If the decision was Attolia's, she would have never slept. Behind her closed eyelids, storms awaited: treacherous and quiet and shapeless, escaping her grasp like smoke, but leaving burning marks of sorrow on her mind. The marks would fade by the morning light, and the awareness of pain would be kept at bay until next nightfall.

It is an offering, Attolia would think, when waiting for her heart to slow down after waking from a nightmare, and the sand in her eyes to disappear. A fair price for being the cold, ruthless monarch her people needed; in her dreams she could succumb to weakness in its many shapes, when no one could see. She'd savour the ache it brought to catch glimpses of familiar faces in the tumbling clouds. Fear was, after all, so very human. Perhaps the only thing about human she still knew how to hold on to.

Amusing how being human – defined by what Attolia managed to rule out of her mind - always wore Helen's face. The young queen would dash through Attolia's dreams, clutching the rim of her sweat-soaked tunic in her hand, her coronet almost invisible among tousled curls. She always seemed to be there, right beyond Attolia's vision. Not jesting. Not taunting. Just being. And this Attolia hated the most.

***

Attolia watched Helen through half-closed eyelids, doubting the sight could be anything more than a fata morgana.The playful spirit with glistening ochre skin could only be a gods' messenger, it should never be confined to throne rooms. But then the spirit came to a halt right in front of Attolia, digging the balls of her feet in dust. She smiled to the other queen - first coyly, then her faint smile grew wider and warmer. Attolia stepped back, smoothening her robe instinctively.

'Good day to you, Queen of Attolia,' Helen's younger version said. Now, Attolia realised, she was facing the yet-to-be Eddis, careless and wearing her heart on her sleeve. Not that her coronation would change anything.  
'Good day to you. How should I address you now, when you look like you've been trying to escape tomorrow's celebration?' the queen replied, forcing her lips in a tight line. Helen's sweat and mud plastering her shins combined a disgusting reek.  
The girl appeared unfazed by the comment.  
'Oh, but it is a beautiful day,' she said, and then paused. Attolia could sense a purpose forming behind those words. This, for once, was not a coincidence. The politician in her woke.  
'Would you accompany me for a walk in the palace gardens?' Helen bowed to acknowledge Attolia's higher status, and straightened herself, finally assuming a pose suitable for a heiress.  
Attolia remained silent.  
'I would be honoured,' Helen said softly. 

The gardens didn't match the opulence of botanical wonders surrounding Attolia's palace, but every small bush growing out of dry Eddis soil was now in full bloom. A good sign, the folk were saying; before the official ceremonies and rites, this land loved its future queen, and awaited her reign. Attolia recalled how, on their way, Helen would respond to the gardeners' and servants' greetings: they were bending in deep bows, surprisingly honest in their respect, and the princess had found a kind word for every of them. Even more astonishingly, she seemed to know their names, and their families. Attolia found herself fearing for the girl's safety. Mingling with commoners never ended well; it was asking for a hidden blade, or a poisoned gift. 

'They won't be always so kind to you, you know,' she said when they were beyond the servants' earshot. The garden gate arched above them, white stone barely visible from a tangle of vines.  
Helen raised her brows.  
'What do you mean?'  
'One day, you will make a decision that will affect their lives.' Attolia's gaze wandered over the surrounding columnades, to the lands far beyond. 'A tax raise, perhaps. An obligatory conscription, if any of the foreign powers decides to claim this land...'  
The girl's rough features contorted in a frown. It did nothing to help what little she had of beauty and charm, Attolia thought.  
'Is this a threat?' Helen asked, her voice still calm, but her hands flexed involuntarily.  
'A warning,' Attolia corrected her. 'You won't be able to keep their admiration forever. You can't afford it, being a queen. You'll have to leave it behind. This, or abandon the idea of yourself on the throne.'

Helen looked away. She had almost managed to conceal the trembling of her lip. Her fawny eyes glistened with tears for a second. In the end, Attolia thought, it took only a little pain to bring out the beauty from this tomboy. Hurt and concern made Helen almost pretty.  
'Why are you telling me this?' Helen's voice called her back from the reverie. 

Attolia reached out to her, but drew her hand back before her fingers met Helen's arm.  
'So that you know,' she said in her gentlest voice, 'that tomorrow you'll have to give yourself up. The change in your name would be just the outmost layer of your metamorphosis: but whatever Helen held close to her heart, Eddia would have to learn to overlook. Helen's wishes will give way to your country's needs.'  
The princess muttered something.  
'I'm sorry, what did you say?'  
Helen cleared her throat.  
'Eddis. My name will be Eddis.'  
Attolia was stunned, but kept her expression neutral.  
'That's... unusual,' she said. 'What would the court say to this, to a... woman king?'  
Helen smiled.  
'It is gods' will. My people will understand.' She looked into Attolia's eyes, seeking confirmation. As if she needed any, Attolia thought, feeling a pang of jealousy. She'd remembered her own coronation: long hours of adjusting that heavy torture device of a gown, reading and rereading codexes, the unending stream of courtiers and aides flowing through the palace rooms. And yet, the dreary, rigid rites were welcome in comparison to the crippling fear. She'd felt her own heart freeze, and deliberately waited for it to become enveloped in thick, crystalline ice. This way, she thought, no one could harm it, ever. 

But of course gods could do as they wished; and they were fully capable of pushing a fine needle through it. 

Helen was still smiling that dreamy smile, oblivious to the queen's anguish. The taste of freedom was so obvious to her, she'd never think she might lose it one day. She was at ease with the world: the fluid movements, the warmth in her eyes spoke of it. She leaned over thick bushes to admire their flowers, and Attolia instinctively thought of how this growth could be used by enemies prepraing ambush. The gardeners greeted their princess, and the foreign queen was reading into their faces, looking for signs of treason. 

It would be a twisted kind of delight, to see this girl disillusioned and broken. It would be only fair to watch her turn bitter and distrustful, to wipe that smile off her face, to put out the warm sparks in her eyes. Attolia felt her shoulders tense. Helen was still wearing that pitiful, trusting look. Slapping her in the face might sober her up now, but destroying this land would be so much more rewarding. 

'I suppose I know what you're thinking,' Helen said, her eyes clouding. 'Please, don't.'  
'You have no idea,' Attolia said coldly.  
Helen readjusted her coronet, a simple band of gold circling her head. It soon sank back into her uneven, cropped locks.  
'You're thinking that I'm not fit for a queen.' She held Attolia's gaze with unexpected firmness. 'You're thinking that I'm too soft, too naive. That putting me on the throne would only tear Eddis apart. And...' She hesitated. 'And that when it happens, it might benefit you if you and your army would be near.'  
Attolia said nothing.  
'You think me a disgrace to this court. A half-wild girl who got everything, and more, without as much as asking. You think that I don't deserve the gods' favour.'  
'If you want to accuse me, you'd better be careful.' Attolia's voice was sharp as a blade. 'Is this how you choose to see me, and our countries' alliance?'  
Helen shook her head and took the queen's hand in her own. 

Her fingers were soft like those of a child's, warm, and sticky with sweat. Attolia fought back the urge to release her hand from the hold. Helen was studying the queen's rings, circling the gems with her fingertips and probing where metal met skin.  
'Gifts?' She asked.  
'Trophies,' Attolia replied, looking around. The gardens were, thank gods, empty – no one would witness her disgrace.  
'That's curious,' Helen murmured. 'Gods must love you dearly, to have granted you so many victories.'  
Attolia snorted.  
'It's not gods' love. Only my own doing.' She turned the phrase "my own" in her mouth, indulging in its flavour.  
The princess gave her a quizzical look, not unlike the glances Attolia had gotten from her most devout courtiers when they thought she wasn't looking. They couldn't grasp that she could revere her gods, and not expect the tiniest shred of mercy from them.  
'We might never know the gods' plans when it comes to us,' Helen said, still holding the queen's hand. 'I just believe they know what is best for us.' She pressed her lips together. 'In the long run, at least.'  
Attolia gave her a bitter smile.  
'So, where do the trophies come from?' The girl asked, running her fingers along Attolia's open palm. The politician's instinct was insisting that she withdrew from Helen's game now, but curiosity won over. And the touch wasn't unpleasant, either.  
'The aristocracy who rebelled against me.' Attolia said. Her throat was dry and tight. She'd never found those stories worth boasting about; she preferred them retold behind her back in whispers, a lingering threat. But it was something else that silenced her now – some long forgotten feeling that flushed her cheeks and made her lower her eyes.  
'They wouldn't acknowledge me as a queen,' she continued, looking at Helen's tanned hand holding hers. 'They expected me to either become their marionette, or to lose the country to other kingdoms. I – I would have neither.' She swallowed. 'Later, I demanded them to bring me spoils of war. So that they would never forget about their obligation to me. And if they did, I could flash it in their eyes.'  
The princess nodded, still playing with Attolia's hand. The childlish nature of her gestures became irritating. They weren't friends. And even if – they both were well past the age when such liberties could be appropriate.  
'Obligation?' Helen prompted.  
'Their service to me. Loyalty and obedience.'  
Helen cocked her head.  
'So this is what a queen requires to reign successfully? Loyalty and obedience?'  
'Didn't your teachers tell you this?' Attolia smirked.  
The girl only smiled, as if she had just thought of a joke she wouldn't share with anyone. 

Attolia looked at the secretive smile on Helen's lips. There was a spark of charm in the plainness of her face – a perfectly likeable face, now when she thought of it. Round cheeks, stubby nose, a chin too pronounced for a girl. The gleam in Helen's big eyes was eerily inviting: to bury one's hand in her unruly hair, or to feel the roughness of her sunburnt skin. Attolia chased the thought away, but something about Helen had changed already.

'I can't give you my loyalty, and definitely not my obedience,' the girl said quietly.  
'Don't be stupid.' Attolia drew her hand back, wiping it clean on the fold of her robe. 'You are supposed to rule this country, not to lose it to me. I thought we've established that I'm giving you advice, not warnings.'  
Helen clasped her hands over her sternum.  
'But I want to give you something,' she said. 'In return, so to say.'  
Attolia flashed her teeth in a short, unkind grin.  
'What could you give me that would be of my interest?'  
Helen sighed and shook her head. This is how you break her, Attolia thought, but her contentment wore thin in a blink of an eye.

Helen moved closer, this time catching Attolia's both hands in hers. Before the queen could react, Helen stood up on her tiptoes and gave her a brief kiss. Her chafed lips brushed Attolia's cheek and the corner of her mouth, leaving behind a lingering memory of warmth. She stepped back and looked at the queen uncertainly. 

Attolia laughed.  
'Is this how they taught you to form and seal alliances? I must tell you that it works only with men, and those who weren't gifted with intellect sharp enough to ever hold real power.' Her mirthless laughter rang in the air. 'I'd never think that the kingdom of Eddis could fall so low.' Each word was directed at herself. She fell prey to the girl's impossible seduction so easy, proving just like the men she'd just laughed about. Weak, sentimental, and giving in to the whims. Risking everything for – what? A fleeting illusion of serenity in the arms of a girl? 

Helen waited, calm as a statue. Hurt had darkened her eyes, but she managed a thin smile again. She was learing fast, Attolia had to give her this much.  
'It was my gift,' Helen said.  
Attolia sneered.  
'Not a very generous one.'  
She should find an excuse and back away; leave the gardens with their thick intoxicating scent, and escape the yearning rekindling in Helen's eyes. But the moment had passed, and she didn't move an inch. 

She had lost, again. 

'You want more generosity?' There was a bright, daring tone to Helen's question. Attolia thought of refusal, but the half-formed answer stuck in her throat when the girl's small hands wrapped around her waist.  
She smelled of resin and crushed leaves, with a salty tang of her sweat, and a distant note of musk. 

Attolia leaned to meet her defeat, catching Helen off guard. She felt Helen's lips part in surprise, and her hands lock over the robe in Attolia's royal colours. Helen was eager, and unashamed, and curious, just like about everything else – but Attolia pulled back before anyone could witness the scene.

Helen licked her lips.  
'You had berries for breakfast,' she stated.  
Attolia steadied her breath. She already knew she'd regret this caprice – she could never have Eddis to herself, and there never could be more than what she had already given. The lack and the fall: the only choice she had now, after carelessly dismissing the wiser options. Blood rushed to her face. She'd have to lock this feeling away and see it wither without nourishment, or see it turn into rankling hate. 

'Now tell me,' she demanded, 'what was this about?'  
'This?' Helen's eyes shone with something Attolia dared not name. 'This was my sovereignty.'

***

Attolia woke with a start, her heart still pounding. A cold, alien presence was filled her chambers. She stifled a cry and reached for the dagger hidden beneath her pillows, but she couldn't draw any strength in her arm. The shape standing by her bed – a gleaming, faceless suggestion of a human figure – raised its (his? Her?) hand in mid air.  
'I have a message for you, Queen of Attolia,' the shape hissed. Its features sharpened, revealing vaguely female traits. It had long, coiling hair, woven out of light.  
Attolia found herself lost for words. Her lips were numb. Disgust, fear and deference held her in a tight clamp; she'd finally recognized the creature.  
'Tell me,' she managed finally.  
The figure shifted.  
'Your Majesty,' Moira said, cloaking the words with jest. 'If Eddis and her Thief are of any importance to you, you'll do as follows.'


End file.
